"My good Catharine," observed a quiet voice from the porch, "how long am I to wait for my glass of milk?" "I am sorry, Mr. Raby, I am indeed," answered Catharine's cheery tones in the distance. "Don't be sorry," returned the same voice; "waiting will do me good." And then there was silence. The stranger stole out and peeped through the half-opened door. There was a tall man standing in the porch; a man so tall that the clustering ivy round the trellis-work quite trailed about him and touched his forehead; a man broad-shouldered and strong, but with a stooping gait like a giant worn out with labor; he was in clerical dress, but his soft felt hat was in his hand, and the grand powerful head with its heavy dead-brown hair and pale face were distinctly visible under the shadow of the ivy. He did not more at the sound of the stealthy footstep or at the light shadow that fell across him, though the girl crept so close that he could have touched her with his right hand; but on Catharine's reappearance she shrunk back with a gesture of mingled entreaty and command. "There is the milk, Mr. Raby, and it is yellow and rich with cream to reward your patience, sir." "Thank you," he replied, smiling, and putting out a large white hand; the stranger took the glass from Catharine and held it to him; he drank it with seeming unconsciousness and with lowered eyes. "A most delicious draught; but your hand is trembling, Catharine; are you tired or unwell?" "Neither, sir, thank you," replied Catharine, huskily, while the girl drew back in evident alarm. "Ah, there is Johnnie come for you, he is waiting at the gate; here is your stick, Mr. Raby. Don't forget your hat, for the sun is very powerful." "No, no," returned the clergyman, absently. "Good-morning, Catharine." Then, as he walked down the little brick-paved path, "How strange; Catharine's hand never felt like that; it always seemed puckered and rough to me, but this felt soft and cold as it touched me, and shook so that it could hardly hold the glass. Johnnie, lad, is there any one standing in the porch with your mother?" "No, sir, only mother." "Strange," he muttered, "strange; I suppose it was my fancy, I am always fancying things;" and then he sighed and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, for Raby Ferrers was blind. CHAPTER II. THE BLIND VICAR OF SANDYCLIFFE. Over-proud of course, Even so!--but not so stupid, blind, that I, Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world Has set to meditate, mistaken work, My dreary face against a dim blank wall, Throughout man a natural life-time,--could pretend or wish. BROWNING'S _Aurora Leigh_.